The Dubious Redemption of Slinkback Malcontent
by Grey L. Bloom
Summary: Draco Malfoy, coward and nothingperson, missing in action and presumed dead. There are those who would see him hang, and there are those who would have him on their side. Rated Kplus for minimal swearing. [FINISHED.]
1. In Which Our Antihero Is Introduced

**WARNING:** This fanfic contains absolutely _none_ of the following --

slash, femslash, spontaneous mental/personality disorders, suicide attempts, cutting, sex, rape, hugging, kissing, romance, any unnecessary physical contact, original characters,character bashing, character flattering, lack of research, discussion with the author's "muses", discussions with the author, lust, logic

And you may find a rather large amount of -- 

unfortunate and accidental mistakes regarding canon (my apologies - I researched as well as I was able), lack of effort in the characterization process, optimism in regards to the character Draco Malfoy

In short, this is an experiment. I decided to test one of my age-old theories: that Draco is actually good. (You all hush and allow me my fangirlishness!) He's a bastard and coward and a daddy's boy, and he always will be. So... under what circumstances would it be possible for him to be redeemed? And how will he take to it?

Hell if I know. I just wrote a bloody fic.

The Dubious Redemption Of Slinkback Malcontent is a work intended solely for entertainment. No profit is being made.

* * *

Chapter One  
_In Which Our Anti-Hero Is Introduced_

Feet on the table. Shoulders back, head back, elbows in the air and balanced, balanced on two of the four chair legs.

There's always been a little bit of rebellion here, a little bit of arched eyebrows and arch glances with pursed and mocking lips. Tight necks and tossed shoulders, sneers and namecalling underneath upturned noses and narrowed eyes.

But there's always been the feeling of entrapment, of closing in.

There's always been a little bit of rebellion, but his father had always been the constant, and so he had always done as his father had, always followed in his father's footsteps. It made sense back then, as it still did now, but soon he had begun to see the flickering of shadows on the edges of his father's circle of safety and light. He had begun to see the inconsistencies and the decay. The Old Ways. The fear and the hate, clenched together like a two-handed fist.

So he'd... he'd looked round, but the other side of the coin was just as bad -- the fear and the hate, the fear and the hate. This time it was reserved for him, his father, his father's friends. That can't be right, he thought, and walked again behind his father, his feet not looking quite so small in the prints left by his father's shoes.

But the shadows just grew, dancing mockingly in his peripheral vision. They were there and always would be, but he didn't know where to find a place where the sides didn't close in so tight. It was all death -- death of the mind, death of the spirit, death of the flesh.

He wanted to be alive.

He wanted to find the edge of the coin.

He found it, and it was everything he never wanted, but it was either stay or allow himself to be slowly assassinated, indoctrinated, brainwashed. Killed.

Death of the mind, death of the spirit -- death of the flesh.

And for what?

So called justice. So called purity.

But there on the edge of the coin they just fought for the right to live.

Call him a coward all you like. Call him a bastard, a thief, a no-good cheat, a slimy punk. He just wants to live to see tomorrow.

He doesn't wear leather and he doesn't like the taste of cigarettes, but he drinks whiskey like water, at night when he's alone, and leans back in his chair and pretends that he's anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Feet on the table. Shoulders back, head back, elbows in the air and balanced, balanced on two of the four chair legs.

Rebellion.

He knows he's a bastard. And he wouldn't have it any other way.


	2. In Which Some Light Is Shed

Chapter Two  
_In Which Some Light Is Shed_

"This is war," he said, and shook himself awake.

There are wars fought in fields and wars fought in cities. Explosions and death and the harsh banging of shotgun shells and bombs. There are wars everywhere and always, between individuals and civilizations and species.

But there are few wars more silent than the war between light and dark.

In the war between wizards there was white and there was black and there was gray -- the white impure, the black evil, the gray just fighting to stay alive.

"This is war," he said, and took his wand from his pocket.

In a war between wizards, hiding in shadows and ducking around corners, battles are fought between individuals. Snipers like thieves in the night, shooting down innocents and blowing up bridges.

They aim to kill, and they hide to stay alive.

"This is war!" he said, and crept out into the night to die.

* * *

Draco Malfoy lived under an enduring umbrella of failure and embarrassment, a twisting weasel trying to survive the snakepit. His father had been captured, his mother was weak, and he... had failed his mission. His one mission. His all-important mission. The one thing that could redeem his father and save his mother and keep Draco himself alive.

So he fought.

He fought as a soldier, a nothing-person in the night, ransacking and sniping and killing for the manthing that commanded such respect, such loyalty, such fear. His hands shook on every curse, his soul broke into gradually smaller pieces with every death.

This was the nightmare time, and even underneath his glib elitism he was worn down and broken.

Broken and hated and disrespected, no power, no doting adoration, Draco Malfoy was sent on a suicide mission.

_to kill is to become less than a man_

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway of the makeshift barracks and breathed hard with his young lungs. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

_to kill is to become more than human_

He was going to take them all with him.

_to kill is to become alive._

"This is war!" he said, and crept out into the night to kill -- and be killed.

_come alive!_


	3. In Which Something Goes Wrong

Chapter Three  
_In Which Something Goes Wrong_

_Vigilante! The snake in the night._

Draco hummed to himself as he swung the vial on its string, the air cold around him. There were ways to stay alive. He could apparate, maybe. Duck. Dodge. Put his faith in dumb luck.

The mission was extremely simple.

Information had been leaked -- a government intern had been persuaded to share knowledge. What was the term muggles used? Information superhighway. Can't stop the signal. Knowledge is information, information is data, and data should be free.

There was to be a secret meeting, between Rufus Scrimgeour and... well, someone, it was to be assumed. The intern had had no idea.

The danger, intelligence, and intrigue required to track down the exact time and place of the meeting had been repeatedly and pointedly pressed into him. And all he had to do was come along and drop the bomb.

So to speak.

If you mix three parts aniseed, two parts _Nundu_ breath, four parts dragon's bile, and one part pureed eye of Ashwinder, then you get an enormous and instantaneous explosion. But if you mix three parts aniseed, two parts _Nundu_ breath, and four parts dragon's bile, in which you suspend an extremely small but extremely strong glass bottle containing one part pureed eye of Ashwinder, then you can create a slightly delayed, but still enormous, explosion.

Glass clinked against glass as the small container knocked about inside the vial. Draco swallowed his heart nervously and tucked the vial into his sweaty palm, keeping his pale eyes on the house across the street.

Any second someone would arrive, and then --

Aha.

_Vigilante! The snake in the night._

Draco walked calmly across the street. His pulse pounded in his ears as his footsteps echoed against the quiet storefronts around him. He wandered along, apparently aimless, staring into shop windows and gradually, gradually working his way towards the house with the green door.

Close enough now.

Weigh it carefully.

The impact against the glass would be enough force to break both the vial and the bottle suspended within, and that would be that.

Heave.

The string caught on his outstretched fingers, and the vial was brought to a short stop. The bottle inside of it, caught in the inexorable pull of momentum and force, rushed up to meet the bottom of the vial.

"Oh, shi-" he said, before the world went white.

Suicide mission.

_Vigilante! The snake in the night._


	4. In Which Draco Malfoy Is Himself

Chapter Four   
_In Which Draco Is Himself_

In the dirt and debris that covered the street and pavement after the fact, feet stepped carefully, raising clouds of dust and echoes.

"I'll be damned...!"

* * *

It was warm and white and safe. 

Draco Malfoy floated for an indeterminate amount of time, calm and blissful in the pale. It would be pleasant if not for some nagging little worry at the back of his head, poking at him every time he got comfortable like a spoiled cat. He just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

... oh.

... right.

He opened his eyes and then immediately squeezed them shut, his temples clanging and an extremely unpleasant burning sensation all up and down his right side. Damn, damn! He'd fumbled it, screwed it up... how was he still alive?

"You're a very lucky young man, you know," said a voice to his left. He would have been alarmed if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the small carniverous elephant taking up most of the space in his head.

"Lucky? Oh, bugger... ouch, dammit..."

"Lucky indeed," said the voice. "By all rights, that explosion should have killed you instantly. Instead, it seems as though the force of the blast mostly just knocked you backward."

Draco managed to squinch his eyelids open. Dim light flooded in, diffused and crystalline as it passed through his watering eyes. His right eye was still squeezed almost entirely shut, and it felt bruised, swollen.

Remus Lupin gave him a friendly little wave, smiling. "You've grown since I saw you last, Draco," he said kindly, patting Draco's blanket-covered ankles. "You've become rather a fine young man."

"I... agh, dammit... what happened?" Draco touched his right eyelid tenderly, wincing as it stung, partially to wake himself up and partially to avoid eye contact with his former professor.

"The... mysterious explosion blew you back. Fortunately, we were only seconds away, nestled cosily in a domicile nearby. The windows blew in, mirrors cracked, plaster rained from on high, the works, but we were lucky enough to survive unscathed."

"We?" Draco glanced up. He could feel the muscles in his face twitching as blood flowed back into them.

Lupin's eyes flickered. "Mr and Mrs Weasley, along with myself and one of our close friends, with whom we happened to be visiting. And you... what were you doing there?"

A woman came into the room and set a tea tray carefully down on the bedside table, but didn't leave immediately. Instead she stood slightly behind Lupin's chair and gave Draco a guarded, yet encouraging nod. She was dark haired and pink cheeked, short and maternal.

"I... I was... just, you know, shopping. Looking around."

Lupin smiled. "These are dangerous times for a young wizard to be out on the streets. Were you shopping for anything in particular?"

"I..."

"Hestia, would you mind fetching the items from earlier?" Lupin interrupted. The woman smiled and scurried out, and the man nodded. "Go on."

"I... no. Nothing in paticular."

"Hmm. How curious." Lupin sat back in his chair, paused for a moment, and then smiled. "Draco, I hope you are not under the impression that we are oblivious to your reasons for being outside the house we were occupying."

Draco looked away hurriedly, and rubbed his aching right arm.

Lupin stayed silent for a moment. "This was to be a suicide mission, wasn't it?" he asked finally, his voice quiet in the dusty room. "You weren't expected to come back alive."

Draco sneered. "You'd be dead by now if the damn string hadn't..."

"Yes," Lupin said. "I know." He stood and walked, limping slightly, to look out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm glad I survived, but I'm equally sympathetic to your plight. You've failed... if you go back now, you'll most likely be killed on the spot. Possibly tortured. Your mother... well." Lupin seemed to look intently at something very far away. "Let's not talk about that." The man turned a bit and stared straight at the boy on the bed. "But you know... they probably think you're dead."

_They probably think you're dead._

The words hit Draco like a brick.

"I don't know whether you want this or not," Lupin said quietly, turning back towards the window, "but you're free now. You're missing in action, presumed dead. You can go be someone else. Lead a different life. Of course, you can always go back..."

"No," Draco said, cutting in more quickly than he would have liked. "That is... no. I... I don't want to die."

Lupin turned and smiled as he sat back down. "Good to hear," he said mildly. "Those of us on the edge... all we do is fight to stay alive. Are you with us on that?"

"On the edge," Draco muttered to himself, unconciously rubbing his arm.

"I'll give you time to make your decision." Lupin stood and moved to leave the room, and then paused, back to Draco, hand on the doorknob. "I feel I should warn you," he said calmly. "You only have three basic choices. One... go back to You-Know-Who and die. Two... turn yourself in to the Ministry and spend the rest of your natural life in Azkaban. Three..." He turned his head, slightly, slightly, so that Draco could see the curve of his lip and the soft look in his eye. "Three, you stay here in the gray. You stay here, and you don't betray us, and you don't die." He smiled, shot Draco a sideways glance, and opened the door. "You think on that," he said, and left.

_They probably think you're dead._

_Think on that._

Draco looked down at his throbbing side. The skin was red and raw and cracked, like scorched cardboard, and there were the telltale signs of heavy medical treatment.

_They probably think you're dead._

Draco felt dead, too.

_Think on that._


	5. In Which Draco Malfoy Dies

Chapter Five   
_In Which Draco Malfoy Dies_

They'd given him a mirror.

Oh well.

His entire right side was burnt raw like his hand, the skin whorled and lacerated where it had been struck by flying shards of glass, splinters of wood. His right eye was dark and swollen and his lip curled down on the right side, locking his face in a permanent and lopsided scowl. His wrist and elbow clicked strangely when he moved, and the bones felt sore and new. The black haired pudgy witch, the one called Hestia, had given him a worried smile and told him about how he was in bad shape when Lupin had brought him to -- to wherever "here" was.

He'd ended up chasing her out of the room.

He spent the next few days eating almost nothing and mourning the loss of his good looks in the dark.

Damn it.

Damn it, he'd been beautiful once!

* * *

But there were still decisions to make. 

_They probably think you're dead._

He was free, whether he liked it or not. His mother... it would be the death of her. But how could he help her by going back to die for his failure? No reason. No reason.

And then there was always going to the Ministry. But for what? His dark mark tattoo would probably get him sent straight to Azkaban. And he'd still have failed...

Failure.

Is that what he was? A silhouette in the dark, nothing to anyone.

He... he was important, once upon a time! Not... not that important, but Crabbe and Goyle had, had looked up to him and Pansy... and Pansy... and Pansy had, had been a girl at him, and it made him feel important and so he was important.

Now what?

A pawn on someone else's chess board.

He wanted to play the game, he wanted to make checkmate, he wanted to--!

He wanted to be something other than he was.

He could do it. He knew he could, if he, if he just made the effort. It was ridiculous to think on it, but... but he had to do something. Something. Anything. Everything!

Nothing.

No!

He was discontent as this failed thing. He was important once... he could be important again. He had to go back, go back to where he was once. He was something once! He made decisions and stuck with them! He... he was Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

But was Draco Malfoy him?

Draco sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and clutched at the sheets. _Draco Malfoy is dead_, he thought. _Long live Draco Malfoy!_

How long had he been in this room...?

The door to the room opened, and light streamed in. "Draco?" said a woman's voice, worried in the dark. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Draco Malfoy is dead," he replied. "Long live--!"

_Stop._

He couldn't have the same name for two people. It would get woozy and messy and confusing, like his head was feeling right now.

"Long live Slinkback Malcontent," he murmured, and passed out on the bedsheet.


	6. In Which Our Story Ends

Chapter Six   
_In Which Our Story Ends_

Feet on the table. Shoulders back, head back, elbows in the air and balanced, balanced on two of the four chair legs. Slinkback Malcontent sits in silence and hatred and drinks his whiskey like water. It's been years now, and still the shadows lick at his heels. But the venom doesn't burn quite so badly, the memories don't sting quite so much.

Glass on the table.

"I still don't trust you, Malfoy," says the young man in front of him, and Slinkback meets his eyes.

Smile, the right side caught in a lopsided scowl. "Malfoy?" Slinkback says. "I wouldn't trust that son of a bitch either. Traitor. Turncoat. Lily-livered pansy. Coward."

In the following silence they toast to some unknown gratitude and stare down the bottoms of their whiskey glasses.

"I still don't trust you, and don't think whiskey will change that."

Slinkback sits back and stares up at the ceiling. "Then I suppose we have more in common than you know, Potter. More than you could ever know."


End file.
